Page 85 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
Suddenly Ivy found herself with Fred’s arms wrapped around her in an impulsive hug. It was a quick embrace, barely more than a heartbeat, but when she realized what was happening, she pulled back awkwardly, cleared her throat and turned to busy herself with tidying the scattered papers.
She sat down heavily, rubbing her temples. Turkeys and Christmas, security and comfort – what could they possibly say to appeal to Robby’s better nature?
Nothing came to mind.
She closed her eyes. ‘I’ll pray for inspiration,’ she whispered. Itwas all she could do.
It was the last Friday before Christmas and the café felt suffocating. Heat from the ovens, the bodies packed-in and Ivy’s own rising stress made the air feel claustrophobic. The morning had seen a continuous flow of customers mostly weaving through the bookshelves; each left cradling carefully chosen gifts wrapped in bright tissue paper, tied with a festive ribbon.
The queue stretched to the door. The espresso machine screamed for attention, and somewhere behind her came the sound of yet another bottle of Prosecco being opened.
And in the middle of it all, Ivy’s brain refused to focus on customers, too busy spiralling over the turkey. If she put it in at seven, it’d be done by eleven – no, wait, that clashed with the church service. If she put it in when she got back, did she have time to rest it properly? What about the roast potatoes? And why, oh why had she invited Fred? Stop this, she scolded herself.Christmas has always been a marathon. You managed to juggle multiple services and cook lunch for a crowd. If she could survive that, she could manage a meal with Fred despite their row.
Ivy ran a hand through her hair and told herself to forget about the big day. Catching sight of Helen at the counter, spooning marshmallows out of her hot chocolate, she remembered that she too would be there, with Omar, and Trish; everything would be just fine.
Helen caught Ivy’s eye. ‘The children are excited about the dress rehearsal for the Christmas Day Nativity,’ she said. ‘They’ve been practising their lines all week.’
Ivy smiled, feeling a tug of nostalgia. She had once led that very service, watching over the children as they stumbled through their lines, their faces alight with the magic of Christmas Day. Ivy hoped Victor wasn’t planning to embellish it.She had always kept it simple; the arrival of the Three Wise Men, no unnecessary theatrics. Families wanted the whole service to last an hour maximum and for Ivy there was always the next service to dash to.
‘I won’t be at the rehearsal,’ Ivy said, wiping down the counter with a damp cloth, then drying it with paper towel before placing a cookery book in the centre of a sheet of red tissue paper. ‘Today’s the last day for us here, and tomorrow I’m taking Omar into Barnstaple to do his Christmas shopping.’ She glanced up to see Omar’s eyes dancing with amusement. ‘I have never done Christmas shopping before.’
Helen laughed. ‘Then it’s about time you started. Why not come with me and try the village shop first.’
The bell chimed as they left, Ivy handed over the wrapped book and turned to deal with the next customer, relieved to see the queue had dwindled to just Margaret and Mabel. Once she’d dealt with their order, Ivy restocked the drinks fridge, then carried a box of books to the shelves. Unpacking the books, she noticed a gap in the antique poetry section. Her fingers traced the usual resting place for the gorgeous volume of Amy Levy’s poetry she had admired when she’d unpacked it and had often drifted to. Reading those verses transported her. There was a gap. Perhaps the book had found its way to someone who would cherish it as deeply as she would have, someone who would understand the delicate beauty of Levy’s words.
She heard the bell again, looked up and a warmth rushed to her skin. Robby. He shook the rain from his coat with efficient, economical movements, the café’s warmth quickly putting the flush back into his cheeks. His eyes swept the room in a brief, automatic assessment before settling on Ivy. He nodded stiffly in her direction – polite, practised, his posture too upright for the casual setting.
But today, she saw him differently. She knew the human costof the sleek watch on his wrist and the designer coat that hugged his shoulders.
The men he defended, the ones whose crimes she had prayed for deliverance from, funded the charity he served. But that charity was a lie. Behind the polished facade, people profited from unspeakable horrors: trafficking innocent lives like commodities, breaking families apart and stealing futures in the darkest corners of the world. And in return, Robby wore their money like a second skin, pretending the good outweighed the rot beneath.
Was there anything she could say to persuade this man to help them expose the evil crimes being perpetrated under the guise of training teachers? They needed someone in London to expose what was going on, and Fred was correct – Robby was the obvious choice. Deciding to try shock, she straightened, her voice sounding sharp. ‘Still hiding from what’s happening in your own workplace?’
Robby took a deliberate step forward. His eyes landed on her dismissively. ‘A retired vicar should be careful what they say in public places.’
‘We know who you’re protecting. It’s Fowler, isn’t it,’ said Ivy, putting a steadying hand behind her on the bookshelf
For a second, Robby’s smirk faltered. Then he laughed, low and mirthless.
‘Oh, very clever. You’ve Googled who the charity is named after. Do us all a favour; convince Omar to go home.’
Deducing that shock wasn’t the right tactic, Ivy tried embarrassment instead. ‘Why? I’ll tell you why – so you can keep protecting people traffickers?’ Ivy shot back.
Robby recoiled slightly, eyes narrowing as if the accusation had knocked the breath out of him. For a heartbeat, he looked genuinely stunned.
Ivy caught the shadow of disbelief crossing his face andcouldn’t tell if it was horror at the idea, or guilt. Did heknowwhat the charity was really doing?
‘Is that what Omar has told you? My, my, he’s got a powerful imagination.’
‘Why not work with us instead of against us? You’re just doing this to keep your cushy job, aren’t you? At double the salary you’d get anywhere else. Expose Fowler, Robby. Do the right thing.’
Robby shrugged, but there was a tightness to his jaw now. ‘Fowler says that despite what Omar’s done, he can get the charges dropped. The Taliban will leave him alone.’ He took a step closer and, his voice dropped to a cruel whisper. ‘Besides, it’s not like he’s really in danger. These asylum seekers all tell the same stories, don’t they? Anything for a free ride on British taxpayers’ money.’
Ivy flinched. ‘That’s not true,’ Ivy hissed. ‘Omar deserves to be here. He’s earned the right.’
‘Oh, has he?’ Robby said, shrugging again. ‘No one deserves to be here,’ he hissed. ‘Another sob story, another “victim”,’ his fingers made air quotes around the word, ‘claiming they need protection. They all blend together after a while. If the charges are dropped, he has nothing to fear. We don’t need the likes of him sponging off us.’
She let go of the bookshelf and glared at Robby. For a man who worked for a charity, he had little compassion. ‘How long have you worked in the charity sector?’
